


A Healer's Journey

by swordboy17



Category: The Numair Chronicles, Tortall - Tamora Pierce
Genre: Amar - Freeform, Apal, Canon Gay Relationship, Carthak, Gift, Gladiators, Homophobia, M/M, Mithran priesthood, Scanra, Slavery, Tamora Pierce, Tempests and Slaughter, Thak City, Tortall
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-24
Updated: 2018-07-27
Packaged: 2019-06-15 15:01:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15415557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swordboy17/pseuds/swordboy17
Summary: Ramasu is fifteen when his magic, called the Gift, emerges, both tardy and powerful. Living in the city-state of Apal in Carthak, his options are limited when it comes to teachers. As he struggles to learn how to control his magic, he is pulled into an adventure by none other than the patron god of Carthak, the Graveyard Hag. With a few twists and turns, and eventual romance, Ramasu fights to complete the task he unwilling agreed to.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted a backstory for Ramasu, the healer in Tempests and Slaughter. He is married, has kids, and is an awesome character. Many of his statements are lacking backstory, such as why does he know what it is like to be possessed by a god? How does he know what sunbirds look like when the immortals have been locked in the Divine Realms for more than two hundred years? So I made my own answers. Since he was so new, there wasn't a lot about him. I have read the passages that he is in multiple times, and as many of my descriptors as possible come from canon. Enjoy!

For all that he was a fifteen year old boy, Ramasu had the typical grace and reservation one would associate with a priest, a lucky coincidence most of the time. His family’s aspirations for him: a top Mithran priest in the duchy they lived in, and happily married to Hafsa, the duke’s third child. For the most part, life was good, food plentiful, and plenty of coin saved away. All of this made it atypical for Ramasu to not only drop a plate, imported porcelain from Yaman, but to vaporize it before it hit the ground.  
“Ramasu, what was that?” queried his mother, a woman from the city-state Amar, before her arranged marriage to Ramasu’s father called for her to relocate to Apal. In a less stately and refined person, her question would have been phrased less carefully, or carried disdain, but her near-nobility upbringing prevented any such indelicacy.  
“Mother, forgive me, I do not know. It felt strange to be holding the plate, it felt wrong, and now it is gone,” he responded, head down in the chance she might not feel inclined to believe him respectful enough. He was as surprised and upset as she was, and it must have shown on his face.  
“Come now,” she said, “I will not blame you, but I suggest we test you for the Gift again.” Ramasu nodded, head truly hanging now. The magic-sniffers, the household servants and slaves called them, and he had already been tested thrice, with no result. If he had a Gift, the magic had waited to appear with horrible tardiness. Young children typically manifested the Gift, if they had it, and it was with increasing rareness that a person older than that would be discovered with the magical Gift. Should he have magic, he would have to be trained or risk the destruction caused by accidental outbursts.  
Some time passed before the magic sniffer could come, but that afternoon he did. Ramasu had spent the time waiting for his arrival catching up on his studies, having fallen slightly behind in the academic work required of a Mithran priest-in-training. After the magic sniffer had seen him, identified that Ramasu did indeed have the Gift, and left after leaving a note about the future for his parents, Ramasu and his parents were in the more private of the two sitting rooms their house possessed.  
“The lad has the Gift, and stronger than any I’ve seen in a long while. Send him to the stronghold to be trained to control it, but once under control, training in a priest’s duties can resume,” read Mother, outloud, to Father, who was relaxing in the great chair by the door. She looked at him as he processed the information.  
“Well, Ramasu, l do believe we should see what your gift can do. Let’s have a demonstration,” he said. Ramasu’s father was a man of great standing in the city-state, frequenting the duke’s household as a counsellor. Though intimidating in appearance, having great stature, the man was compassionate and kind to those within his household.  
“Yes, Father,” Ramasu responded, standing and hoping that nothing would turn to dust this time. He focused all of his energy and called a bit of his amber-gold gift to the surface of his skin, making his palms glow. His parents looked disconcerted, and disappointed. Not wanting to fail them, Ramasu attempted to call the light outside of his skin. When, after a few moments of trying, his vision began to fade in and out, Ramasu fainted from the effort.

 

He awoke in an infirmary, fully clothed, but not alone. The healer, identified by the style of clothing, more functional than fashionable, was sitting next to the chief mage of the duchy. Ramasu had only seen the chief mage on festival days, when she had done tricks for the duke, like lighting fireworks. The woman was dressed in the height of Carthaki style, with a wrap skirt and top in bright colors and a bare midriff. The two were deep in discussion.  
“He has to be trained by someone, and his parent’s are clearly not going to do it. They tried to make him use his Gift untrained! And he overexerted himself,” the healer’s harsh whisper would have echoed had the chief mage not interjected.  
“I know that, have you seen the power this young man has? He has more depth to his power reserves than I do, five times over. I can no more train him than you could train a monkey to fly. I have already talked with the duke. Ramasu will stay under your eye as he learns to meditate, then he is to learn no more. The duke does not want a mage son-in-law, but a priest, and will get one.” Standing, she placed a purse, clanking with coins, on the table at which they were sat. “For your silence and time” she said, and left. Waiting a few moments, then turning to Ramasu, the healer smirked.  
“Now, lad, I know you heard all of that, I had a spell on you to alert me to your waking. What think you of this?”  
Having the decency to look ashamed, Ramasu shook his head. “I just want to be a priest, marry my betrothed, and be normal. I never asked for the Gift.”  
“A priest, hmm. Well, good luck with that. And good luck if you wanted me to teach you mage craft.” He snorted, a half-smile crinkling in his eyes. “I’m no mage, just a very good healer.”  
“So that money the master bribed you with-”  
“Will compensate for the time I spend teaching you to meditate. Which will start in three days time, you being here at dawn, before any priestly training you might be required to do takes place.”  
“Yes Healer.” Ramasu nodded agreement.  
“Good, then you are cleared to go home. Rest and I will see you tomorrow.” Knowing he was dismissed, Ramasu left for home, where he detailed his new schedule to his parents. They were convinced that studying magic was folly for a priest, but they deigned that he could indeed study meditation in the early morning. That night, sleep came late, as concerns and anxiety for the morning followed Ramasu into the dark hours.


	2. Chapter 2, First Day of Learning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ramasu's day following the discovery of his Gift.

At the first creak of the rising sun, Ramasu rose and prepared to leave his home for the keep’s infirmary. On route, he passed by the gladiators the duke had on hand for entertainment. They were rippling masses of toned muscle, and more often than not, and unfortunately, in his opinion, slaves. Always choosing to walk this way, some portion of Ramasu’s allowance went to his favorite gladiators in form of tips or shows of favor. Any such coin they received would often go to their families, the only form of income for many of them. It was often a small amount of money, but any quantity was Ramasu’s way of fighting against the gladiatorial slave process. It was an unfortunate fate for a person to be a gladiator. It was not uncommon for them to be healed incompletely from their battle wounds, limping through pain and frequent debasement. The gladiatorial facilities were always in poor shape, what with Apal being smaller than the capital of Carthak, Thak City. Thak City had many more gladiators, and a grand theater for combat, in which the emperor was said to frequent.   
“Greetings, Ramasu!” “‘Lo, there, priest-boy” “Morning!” The three gladiators greeted Ramasu in good spirits, raising hands in greeting.   
“Good morning,” he replied, but did not stop on his path towards the keep. The fellows seemed disappointed at the slight rebuff, but shrugged. It was rare that Ramasu was too busy to stop and chat, but he would be back tomorrow.   
The scenery as Ramasu approached the keep was such as was common for the post-rainy season in the south east of Carthak. Apal was centered on one of the largest oases in the midst of the desert that was east Carthak. The large, leaf topped trees were spindly, built for surviving the occasional dust storm, and the flowers and succulents were frequent and still in bloom. The keep surrounded the source of the water for the region, with wells and springs bubbling outwards. The wealth of water as one got closer encouraged mud houses, sided with flattened clay, instead of the less sturdy wood or fabric housing in the city outskirts. Only the richest and most powerful people had houses of stone.   
Arriving at the keep, a large stone building where the ducal family and city-state offices were held, Ramasu walked around the large wall keeping the majority of people out. He had received instructions yesterday afternoon pertaining to where he was to meet the healer today, just inside the sun-down gate of the keep. This gate, shadowed by the wall, opened slightly to reveal the healer. He gestured to Ramasu to follow him inside, and wisely, Ramasu followed.   
Upon reaching a small garden not far removed from the infirmary or the sun-down gate, the healer stopped and sat, legs crossed, and motioned for Ramasu to do the same. After he was situated, the healer gave what sounded to be a rote speech on how and to what end meditation was used for. He counted to seven, instructing Ramasu to inhale, the healer counted another seven, with instructions to exhale, and so the pattern continued. It was relaxing, but not particularly insightful for controlling, or using, his gift.   
“How can you know if it is working if you do not have the Gift?” Ramasu asked his teacher. This was a point of concern, since magic was prone to leaking or becoming easily uncontrolled. Ramasu had witnessed this side of his power already, and was not keen on fainting again any time soon.   
The healer glanced at him. “I have access to an oil that, when placed upon my eyelids, gives me the ability to see the Gift. Do not worry about success today. Today is about form and practise.” They continued.   
Following meditation, Ramasu hurried to the Mithran temple. He was typically there by the third bell of the morning, for breakfast with the other students. Today, he was only a few minutes early to the fourth bell, and the start of his class on mathematics. The rest of his morning, and until the third bell of the afternoon, was academic and religious studies necessary for priests-to-be and other children of upper, and even lower, level officials. A walk around the city’s main park, and a quick stop to reassure his gladiator friends that yes, this morning he was rushed, and no, nothing was wrong, and Ramasu walked home. He was not quite tired, so he picked up his bow from the outroom and practised archery outside. It was only at his mother’s insistence that he ever even touched a weapon, so he was learning archery. It was relaxing to Ramasu, and he practised his breathing exercises from his morning with the healer.   
Following a quick bath, Ramasu sat to dinner with his parents and the household. The family frequently ate with all of their servants at the table as well as the few slaves that his parents owned. The family at the dias, the servants at the table below, and the slaves at the far tables in the room. Dining room, entryway, and the bathrooms throughout the house were all adorned with tile mosaics depicting gods, heroes, and the family’s history. As a child, Ramasu had loved to look at them during meals, and as a young man, he appreciated the artisty and beauty of them. Only the keep had mosaics to rival theirs.   
Conversation that evening was primarily focussed on his father’s interactions in the courts and other administrative dealings with aiding the functioning of a city-state as prosperous as Apal. His younger sisters, Alpin, age three, and Marzia, age five, were not present as they were too young to sit still for the two hour affair that the evening meal often was. However, Ramasu’s mother was sure to update him on their wellbeing. At the conclusion of the meal, the three of them, Ramasu, his mother, and his father, proceeded to the sitting room to discuss the happenings of the day. Thankfully, no magic-induced fainting spells interrupted their quiet evening. Ramasu practically fell into bed that night, and slept knowing a similarly busy day awaited him when he woke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading chapter two! As always, I am open to suggestions and feedback, and I love getting comments.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading chapter 1! I have many more planned, and would love feedback. I do have the entire plot planned, and roughly sketched out, but I do take into account comments!


End file.
